


Fortissimo - FF

by JohnlockAndATardis



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: F/F, PWP, Pray for me, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7588615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnlockAndATardis/pseuds/JohnlockAndATardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex and Amalia reunite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fortissimo - FF

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry for this. Prayers for my soul as I drag us all down into the gutter.

     Amalia tastes like smoke and lipstick. She's just gotten in, just came off a flight from Moscow after being She-Won't-Say-Where for six months, chasing down a lead that could get her killed. Alex wants -needs- to tear her apart herself, to vent out all the anger and the fear she's been keeping bottled up all this time. It's almost impossible waiting the ride home, and Alex is so desperate to touch her, all over. She settles for holding her hand instead, folding their fingers together and rubbing her thumb in a calming sweep against the back of Amalia's palm, trying not to display how anxious and impatient she is. Amalia sees, Alex knows she does, but she doesn't say a word. She waits the drive, foot tapping in the back of the cab, until they get to the apartment which is theirs.

     She has Amalia up against the wall in three seconds flat. A new record. Amalia is startled for only a second before her hands are against the other's skin and then they are kissing with a biting passion, digging for the other's stolen breath. Fingers creep up Alex's side, under her shirt, working her bra clasp open with one hand while the other clutches at the curve of her body, pulling her closer, cupping the plump flesh of her bottom. Alex pulls away to rip off her shirt, looking upon Amalia with a hunger that could only grow. She grabbed Amalia's hand, pulls her towards the bedroom. They fall back against the bed together, Alex on her back, and they are locked in a python's embrace, the journalist working her way down Amalia's figure, pressing kisses to her neck, biting them into her collarbones, fierce and passionate. A hand tangles into the blonde locks, pulls her over until she is straddling the other, until Amalia is staring up to her with the clearest, ice crystal eyes, and sighs out her name like a prayer on her tongue, a hymn to her that Alex wants to swallow. She pushes her fingers under the hem of Amalia's shirt, tugs it up and over her head, too impatient to do anything but drag down the cups of her bra and wrap her lips around the Russian's nipple. A moan is elicited that sounds like Heaven, Amalia's fingers pulling at her hair, nails scratching into her scalp in a way that should not feel good but does. Alex's tongue catches the peak, swirls around it, suction drawing out even more of those noises, sounds that make her weak in the knees, make her glad she's not standing.

     "Alexandra," comes her name again with that Russian lilt, impatient. She wants to draw this out, make the first time they've been together for half a year last, but the urgency in Amalia's voice forces her to give up her ideas of a siege upon the other's body if only for now. Her fingers wander down to unbutton the other's jeans, to pull them down to her knees, trapping Amalia's legs there. Her flesh is already damp with desire and Alex finds the rest of her much the same, her palms squaring upon the woman's thighs to draw these apart, to pull her open and calm the heat that burns between them. The woman bows her head, wastes no time in licking her open and tasting what she has been missing for so long.

     Amalia is sweet and familiar, with hints of sweat and salt to betray the way she has been living, always on the run, always looking over her shoulder. Alex wants to make her forget about all of that, wants to ground her to the moment in which they are holding one another and they are safe, entangled in Passion's mighty grasp. Her tongue drags the woman's slick up the length of her sex, hooks up to tease at her clit, not applying hardly the pressure the other is looking for, and Amalia practically keens. Eager fingers creep up, dipping into that urgent wetness, slipping into her and working through the desire there, one and then two filling the temple at which Alex worships. They are quick and messy, and the journalist forgoes whatever teasing she had hoped for, knowing there is time for her to properly dissect Amalia later. Her tongue again catches on her clit but this time it doesn't stop, doesn't dance around it. Amalia keeps her fingers in Alex's hair, presses her on, her encouragement coming in breathy, desperate gasps that increase in pitch the more she gives. A crescendo is coming upon them, the staccato of bodies becoming even more broken, whatever smooth rhythm they had breaking as their piece reaches its height and the music shatters in a broken cry. Fingers pull at sheets, at hair, a back arches from the bed that had been empty without her, toes curl from where they are trapped by denim fabric, and the world focuses into the sharp blade of clarity before it falls back into chaos of the best kind.

     If Alex had looked back at this moment, she probably could have understood how a symphony can end the world. 


End file.
